


A Not-So-Subtle Hint

by BootsnBlossoms



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, John isn't so great at relationships, Red Pants, Sherlock is the emotionally insightful one for once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-14 00:18:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootsnBlossoms/pseuds/BootsnBlossoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Please, Sherlock, I’m begging you.” John’s voice was back to irritated.  “Shut up. What do you know about it, anyway?  It’s not like you’ve got people knocking down the door for you.”</p><p>Sherlock didn’t let himself feel the sting.  He and John both knew it was by choice Sherlock was a romantic recluse.  “I’m merely trying to help you find the root of your problem so you can solve it, get laid, and stop being so bloody grumpy.”</p><p>“I’m not fucking grumpy.”</p><p>Sherlock snorted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Not-So-Subtle Hint

**Author's Note:**

> Original fill ended with hot couch sex (I apparently have a thing for that) because the OP asked for slash, but the OP was looking for something different anyway, and I like the way this one ends better. If you're interested in the porn ending, [it's here on Tumblr](http://bootsnblossoms.tumblr.com/post/31279878134/a-not-so-subtle-hint-bbc-sherlock-fic).
> 
> Written to incorporate a different twist on Red Pants Monday.

Sherlock walked into the flat after dinner, expecting it to be empty. John was on another of his dates – wooing and wining and dining in his slick brown shoes and cleanest pair of not-jean trousers – and Sherlock had been walking the streets, updating his mental maps and looking for new adventures. He expected to undress, have a drink, and perhaps coax the violin into something original without the subtle presence of his flatmate influencing his movements.

But such was not the case. In an odd turn, John was laid out on the couch, legs splayed, eyes closed, a package clasped to his chest. He looked like a butch version of an Austen heroine, clothed in drab beiges and arm flung over his face, which bore a pained expression.

“Didn’t go so well?” Sherlock asked, shaking off his coat and shoes and walking towards the kitchen.

“I don’t get it, Sherlock, I really don’t. I’m attentive. I’m kind. I pay the dinner bill and hold open the doors.”

Sherlock pulled out a couple of tumblers and poured the scotch. He toed off his socks on the way back to couch, handed John a tumbler (who accepted it without moving anything but his arm), and proceed to strip off his jacket. “What happened? Was it Lily still?”

“Andrea. This was our sixth date, four weeks in. She’s nice. I’m nice. I don’t see the problem.”

Sherlock sighed, set his drink down, and wandered into his room to change.

“What’s with the package?”

John sat up and gave a self-depreciating laugh. “You’re not going to believe this.” He loosened his tie, pulled off his shoes, and tossed them into a pile by the door. “We hadn’t… you know… yet, and she wanted to give me a hint, I guess.” He tossed his belt into the pile and unbuttoned his cuffs. “A not-so-subtle hint.”

Sherlock returned in his nightclothes and raised an eyebrow expectantly. 

With a flourish, John pulled the contents from his package. “Red pants!” He waived the little garment angrily. “Not a pair of sexy maroon boxers. Not a pair of burgundy sweats for lounging around after… you know! Couldn’t even be a pair of sexy low-risers with, I don’t know, a Union Jack on them or something!” His voice was rising with anger, but he still wasn’t shouting. He wasn’t blushing. He didn’t look abashed. He looked… irritated.

Sherlock was sure that wasn’t right.

“You find the Union Jack sexy?”

“Not the point, Sherlock.” John sighed and leaned back. “Candy apple red Y-fronts. Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Then what?”

“I said thank you, tucked them back into the wrapping kind as you please, left some cash on the table, and told her I’d call her.”

“That’s it?”

“I didn’t know what else to say.” The emotion was gone, and John’s tone was now just resigned. He took a stiff pull from the glass and fell back.

“Statistically speaking, most modern couples engage in coitus after the third date.” 

“Thanks, Sherlock.”

“Your failure to do so, combined with your ‘nice-guy attitude’, probably indicated to her that you were shy. She probably simply sought to break that barrier by introducing it in a way that could be laughed off if you felt uncomfortable.”

“Great. Thanks. But I don’t think I’m going to take dating advice from you.”

“I’m not giving advice, just gathering data and musing on hypothesis. You have a problem, and that fact that it happens over and over and over again means it’s you, not them.”

John sat up again and glared. “You are oh so helpful. Come on, Sherlock, this isn’t helpful.”

“You’ve had so many girlfriends in the last 18 months that even I have trouble distinguishing them. They never last for more than a few months. You never make it to true intimacy. If you wanted that girl at all, you could have laughed the pants off, kissed her, and taken her home. Not get stiff and angry and walk away.”

“Please, Sherlock, I’m begging you.” John’s voice was back to irritated. “Shut up. What do you know about it, anyway? It’s not like you’ve got people knocking down the door for you.”

Sherlock didn’t let himself feel the sting. He and John both knew it was by choice Sherlock was a romantic recluse. “I’m merely trying to help you find the root of your problem so you can solve it, get laid, and stop being so bloody grumpy.”

“I’m not fucking grumpy.”

Sherlock snorted.

Silence took over as they finished their first round of scotch. John got up to fetch the bottle and poured them another round.

“My parents weren’t the affectionate kind.”

Sherlock carefully didn’t react. He merely watched as John stretched on the couch, facing Sherlock but looking at fire.

“In fact, you could go so far as to say they were anti-affectionate.”

Sherlock had seen enough scars – old scars – to know that already. 

“I had a few girlfriends during my last few years at uni, but nothing serious. Then I went up for God and bloody England and really, really reveled in not being able offer ‘serious’ to anyone.” John chuckled. “Such fun. And yet…”

“Sounds a bit dull. Meaningless orgasms where only the face and location change. Not much stimulating there.” Sherlock watched with some amusement as John pulled the elastic of the red pants which were, for some reason, still in his hand.

“Emotionally and intellectually true. The women became faceless and really just tools for masturbation. Fun, physically satisfying, but…” He shrugged.

“And now?”

“Exactly.” John looked at Sherlock properly and gave a self-depreciating smile.

This time the silence lasted for nearly 20 minutes, punctuated only by the refilling of glasses and the snap of the fire.

“The first girl I was serious about, really serious about, when I got back?”

“Sarah?”

“The first time I slept in her bed over at her flat, I had a nightmare.” John swallowed. “The screaming, kicking, smashing kind.” Sherlock nodded; he’d been privy to the nightmares, 100-year old floorboards of Baker Street not doing much to stifle the noise. “I woke up pulling her hair back, hand on her throat.” John blinked and bowed his head.

“I see.”

John’s hand shook as he took another drink, glaring at the red pants.

“You crave intimacy, the real kind, but are afraid that bring the full weight of your needs and issues on her will…”

“Make it end in worse ways than running out of a Thai bistro with a pair of juvenile-looking underpants in my hands.”

Sherlock chuckled. Suddenly they were both laughing, some of the tension bleeding from John’s defeated frame.

“Oh god.” He smiled and wiped away a tear. “What do I do?”

“Find a partner you can trust. Tell them everything. Find ways around the things that scare you, and talk about them openly and honestly.”

“Surprisingly insightful, Sherlock,” John said, preparing to wrench himself out of of the chair and into bed.

“Well, my parents weren’t the antithesis of affectionate. I may have picked up a trick here or there, despite myself.”

John laughed again, shook his shoulders loose, and headed towards his bedroom.

“In any case, that girl should have known these aren’t your style at all. Mind if I borrow them?”

“Uh…” John didn’t quite know what to say until he caught Sherlock’s glance towards the kitchen. He smirked. “Be my guest. Just don’t burn down the flat with them.”

Sherlock laughed, pulled himself up, and tossed the pants on the table. “If you insist.”

John went to bed feeling strangely light, and grinned.


End file.
